


The Harvest

by annhellsing



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Captain America: First Avenger-based, Existentialism, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Mutual Masturbation, Nurse!Reader, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-Hydra Kidnapping, Wartime Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-24 17:02:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21741400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annhellsing/pseuds/annhellsing
Summary: In which Sergeant Barnes reminds you that he is not yet dead.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 54





	The Harvest

**Author's Note:**

> this was written from 12-3 am so forgive any??? shittiness

How bright the light, how deep the dark sky against the chilly moon. You sit underneath it, waiting for some kind of sign in the thick darkness. But nothing happens, not even the stars move slowly across the sky. All is still, no meteor showers from the cold reaches of space.

Whether your heart beats when nothing else moves is in itself a question. But you dare not feel your chest to check, scared of what you might find. Dying out here under a harvest moon doesn’t feel wrong, you admit. Maybe when the sharp stillness ends your spirit will move and leave only a body-like shell behind. Wouldn’t that be something?

A cold hand touches your shoulder, but you expect it. You reach behind you, covering knuckle with your palm.

“You could’ve scared me,” you smile, turning your head to look behind you.

“Sorry, doll,” James replies, he has that gleam in his eye that you recognize. He’s tired but still worried. You didn’t come to bed.

“I was just looking at the moon,” you say, “thinking about things. You know,” you tell him. Bucky nods. You half expect him to turn and wander back into the room at the inn, but he moves around the bench out on the balcony. He sits next to you.

It’s calmer now, with him. You feel less detached with his warming body pressed near yours. His chest is bare, you snake an arm around his waist to keep him close.

“Penny for your thoughts?” he asks, turning towards you. James pushes his nose into your hair, kissing an inch or two above your ear. You hum, leaning against him.

“You don’t have a penny,” you say, pulling away just enough to look at him. Before you can stop yourself, you lean in and touch your cold lips to his. “You spent all your money in the bar downstairs.”

“No, I didn’t. Some of the other guys, though—” he’s trying to make you smile, all but nudging you to coax a grin. There’s a fight in his eyes, he doesn’t want to go to sleep until he knows you’re all right.

You give in, you smile at him and lean in for another kiss that he more than grants.

His skin is beginning to warm under your touch. Your slip is riding up your thighs already as the thought and threat of dying is suddenly lost on you. How sweet, this man. How kind even when he’s half asleep.

“I was thinking about silly things,” you tell him, moving from his lips to the sharp line of your jaw, “dark things.”

“I could tell,” he laughs so easily for someone who’s seen so much war. You’re almost envious. “Your thousand-mile stare’s unmistakable.”

“It doesn’t matter,” you insist. Bucky looks caught in the way your mouth feels against his neck. You move lower and lower still.

“It does,” he sighs, leaning in towards you until his shoulder rests heavily against yours. You smile against his skin, giving him what he wants in spades. Almost.

“I don’t want to die out here,” you say. His goosebumps raise for an entirely different reason.

Bucky’s hands don’t feel so frozen, but they’re roughly gently as they fit over your shoulders. You’re pushed back very carefully, you look up at him with abstract horror in your eyes.

“Who said anything about dying?” he asks. You let out a heavy exhale.

“Nobody, nothing, I don’t know why, but I just couldn’t get it out of my head,” you sound embarrassed, apologetic.

“No, no, it’s not like it’s your fault—” he sits back, looking at you with concern pressed against his irises. No sleep can hide it now. Your eyes drop to your lap all the same.

“I don’t mind talking about it, it’s just hard to admit out loud. Because it could happen, I suppose. It does happen,” and Bucky knows that. He knows you know that, you spend your days next to dying men. You hold their hands and pray with them if they ask you to.

“We’re gonna be fine,” he mumbles, shifting forward again to offer comfort. He’s a well of support when prompted correctly, you’ve found. There is so much love in his heart, it hurts sometimes.

“I know, I know, that’s why I’m kissing you instead of dwelling,” you tell him. His hand under your chin coaxes your eyes to his again. James leans in, kissing the corner of your lips.

“If that’s what you want, I’ll drop it,” he promises.

“It won’t solve anything to dwell,” you say. You look out at the landscape, half-rural and bearing the damages of war already. It spreads like an infection, following him and you. “Or to lose any more sleep. We should go to bed.”

“Not a bad idea,” James says. He takes you in his arms again, shifting reluctantly now that he’s comfortable on the bench. But the bed will be warm, you begin to look forward to that.

“Come on,” you tell him, standing and pulling him with you. Bucky follows, settling into the idea of rest again. He’ll have to be up early, you know that, pushing on back towards the front lines.

But tonight, he’s here with you and that is more than enough. You touch him instinctively, like you’re trying to memorize his body before he can sink into the mattress. Your fingers spread out over his chest, exploring toned muscle. He hums above you, content.

He doesn’t return the favour until you’re properly tucked into bed. He’d rather not give you another reason to stay up. But when the covers are covering, James’ hands creep near the edge of your shift.

“Mhm,” you whisper to him. He’s a gentleman, he wants a yes spoken aloud before proceeding.

His fingers are calloused, they squeeze your thighs, moving upward. You nuzzle your cheek into his shoulder, not entirely opposed to the idea of something else before sleep. You love him so effortlessly, nothing can ease your fears like him.

And you know Bucky has nightmares, you’ve felt him shift and struggle next to you. You’ve seen him drown on dry land in a haze of dust and fired shells. He thinks about it all night because he won’t discuss it during daylight hours.

This helps him, too. Putting his hands on the curve of your rear grants a reprieve from similar notions of dying and death. His friends were brought here to die, he was, too. You might survive but nurses walk with targets painted on their chests.

You moan against his skin, pulling him from unkind thoughts. You watch James’ return with a smile that is overly bright. Just as he made you forget, now it’s your turn. You continue your exploration, hands warmed through now by proximity and love.

Beginning again at his chest, you pause to feel the beat of his heart. It’s drum-like and steady and quick. You look at him from under your lashes, Bucky stares with a wanton expression that makes you giddy. His mouth is half ajar and you’ve barely begun.

You whisper you love him, it cuts the quiet night. He responds to your touch, melting and lying back on the bed. You hover over him, shoving moonlit thoughts firmly into the recesses of your mind. His hand remains on your thigh, tracing circles like he hasn’t the capacity for much else.

He loves you, too, he says as much. It’s not hard for him to admit, not when he’s already been promised that you’ll wait for him if need be. Your hand moves down his chest, over his stomach and to the hem of his buttoned-down briefs. James hisses, lifting his head and watching intently.

There’s a stirring in him, he feels warm heat leap from his brain decidedly downward. He’s still tired, still a bit detached from it all but this is a pleasantness he more than welcomes. You move soft, too softly to resist.

His legs part and you put your hand under the waistband. Bucky falls back against his pillow with a hollow thump, you can’t contain a giggle. Your other hand moves to his hair, fingers curling around brown waves mussed by interrupted sleep.

“You’re beautiful,” he tells you, he stares into your downcast eyes and searches for the return of your genuine smile. You scoff, rolling your eyes as you make a loose fist around him.

He moves with you, trying in vain to control the pace. Somewhere in the haze, you tell him he’s beautiful, too.

“You gotta—” he starts, shifting to sit again. He seems to mean it more this time, you let him prop himself up on his elbows. “It’s gotta be my turn one of these days.”

“Your turn?” you ask, there’s a teasing lilt to your voice.

“What kind of beau would I be if you had to do all the work?” he asks and you seem to consider the thought. You give a content sigh and lie down beside him. But your hand remains firmly down his briefs.

You shift so your thighs touch, spreading yourself just as he does. Bucky’s left hand reaches for your skin. He’s more insistent, tugging up your slip to reveal the bare tops of your legs and other neglected areas.

His grin is smug when you mewl right away. You’re tempted to respond with a calculated squeeze but refrain from spoiling his fun. After all, it was you who forced him from bed at so ungodly an hour. He has more say in the matter than you’d usually allow.

“Oh, please,” you sigh, looking to him with wide and honest eyes. He licks his lips, “yes, James.”

It’s music to his ears. He asks if you like it because he wants you to say it again. And you indulge him easily.

But he’s more than affected, especially as you pump his length with a little more fervour. Two can play this game, you’ll not lie fully back and let him have his way. You feel him twitch under your fingers, the head of his cock slick with precome and pressing against the crotch of his briefs.

His eyes close more than once, the steady rotation of his middle finger around your clit stills and begins anew. You can track what you do to him in relation to what he does to you.

It’s more languid than the lovemaking you usually enjoy, but it can’t be long before dawn will interrupt the coupling. You’re both wanting for sleep but more pressingly for each other.

He moves faster, with less precision but only growing adoration. James stiffens and then relaxes. He presses his head back into the pillows, keening sharply when you still your fist.

Teasing him is priceless, you apologize with gentle kisses pressed to the ball of his shoulder.

His hand stops moving completely when he comes. It’s involuntary, you can’t blame him for that. You count the seconds between the blissful arch of his back and the sheepish apology, there are not very many.

“Don’t apologize,” you insist, it’s paired with a kiss for good measure. You’re still laid out on your back, waiting for him to catch his breath. Bucky understands the expectation better perhaps than even you.

He rolls over and pushes his hand between your legs again. His lazy smile peers at you through the dark, your eyes aren’t open to see it. You lift your hips and move against him as he did, demanding more friction from his fingers.

To his credit, James doesn’t let up until you’re writhing and moaning his name. The balcony door remains open and he considers that anyone outside might suddenly be familiar with Sergeant Barnes. He presses his other hand to your hip, guides you through the glow until you’re lying there, boneless.

He takes you in his arms without needing to be asked. You make a sound, a weak but happy noise into the crook of his neck. Thoughts of fields and blood shining silver under moonlight have faded enough for you to find sleep.


End file.
